


a midnight swim

by zombeesknees



Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 04:49:46
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17073779
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zombeesknees/pseuds/zombeesknees
Summary: Amy explores the TARDIS. | Written many moons ago on LJ.





	a midnight swim

_“…You wanted to come when you were seven.”_  
_“I grew up.”_  
_“Don’t worry. I’ll fix that."_

Late at night the words would echo in the back of her mind, conjuring memories of the best bedtime story she’d ever heard and mornings spent wearing down every blue crayon in the box on the drawings she wallpapered her room with. She would picture Peter Pan, but he would be wearing a bowtie (and sometimes a fez). She’d think of the way it felt, the first time she floated in space: it was better than she ever could have imagined when she was seven. 

And the box, that borrowed and ancient and brand-new blue box—nothing she’d ever dreamed came close to what it was actually like inside it. Stepping inside that first time had been overwhelming, but it also somehow felt like coming home. Strange, how something so impossible and alien could feel so familiar and welcoming.

When she actually paused to think properly about her new home, the impossible magic of it would bewitch her all over again. She’d find herself staring intently at some tiny spinning bauble on the console, counting the strange lights along the walls. And on nights when she couldn’t sleep, when Rory’s breathing beside her was steady and even, sometimes she would slip out of bed, pull on a pair of faded bunny slippers, and creep through the halls silently. Amy knew that no matter how many sleepless nights she spent exploring, there would always be at least _one more_ room or hall or staircase. The TARDIS was so old now, and had been growing for centuries, and she could be incredibly secretive when she wanted. There had been many times when Amy could swear that the rooms rearranged themselves; that doors she’d opened before now belonged to completely different rooms and were suddenly locked from the inside. 

On the fifth night of exploring she found a ballroom. It was all marble and gold tiles and imposing and very, very French; like something transplanted from the Palace of Versailles. There was a grand piano at one end, a mirror as long as a car above the fireplace, and a chandelier covered with hundreds of crystals. The terrace doors opened into a fragrant greenhouse redolent with the scents of rich earth and sap and flowers. The plants inside hummed and slipped curious tendrils into her hair as she walked past or else gathered up their roots like a lady's skirts and crept away to hide.

On the eighth night she found herself in what looked like a spa, but one that hadn’t been designed for humans. There were strange fixtures along the walls, furniture that looked suited for someone with more than two legs, and glossy fashion magazines from the Alpha Centuri quadrant.

On the tenth night she got lost in a winding labyrinth of a room that had been used for storage. There were golden crowns perched on busts of Napoleon and a statue of a man with a horn growing out of his forehead. Something was rustling softly inside of an immense sea chest, but she found she didn’t really care to discover what it was (she told herself she was just too tired, that it _was_ three in the morning, it wasn’t because she was scared of what she might find—not in the slightest). There were vases and pots and urns, some faded and cracked and decorated with disgustingly maudlin depictions of frolicking puppies, others gilded and richly lacquered with images of Egyptian gods. The treasures and cast offs of a hundred races, from a thousand different centuries, all tucked safely away in the belly of the TARDIS. 

_He’s quite a magpie,_ Amy thought with a wry smile.

But of all of the strange and wonderful rooms she found, none intrigued her quite like the other bedrooms. They all felt… _alive_ , as if they’d absorbed the energy of their former occupants and still breathed their memories in and out all day. 

This one had clearly belonged to someone with a very responsible personality: the room was pristine and well-organized, the clothes in the closet arranged by color and season. There was a large stack of medical books on the desk, and a notebook full of anatomical diagrams. And this one had belonged to a vastly different woman—there was a tottering pile of tabloids on the floor beside the bed, and an empty wineglass on top of the dresser. The trashcan by the door was full of crumpled crisp packets and an elaborately beaded flapper dress had been tossed carelessly over the back of a chair. 

This room had a staler air than the others; Amy supposed the owner had been gone for quite some time. It was barren compared to the others, simply furnished with only a bed, a small table, and an ancient-looking wardrobe: it was the sort of room that belonged to someone who didn’t have much time for an indoor life, who preferred nature and action to sitting in bed. The simple bedclothes were mussed, the wardrobe full of kilts, and a sword hung on the wall. The room down the hall was more feminine; the lime green and dark blue accents felt very retro. A clunky typewriter, carefully covered with a plastic case, took up most of the desk, and there was a small bowl in the corner filled with what seemed to be engine oil. **K-9** was stamped on the side in black.

And then there was the pink room. The walls, the duvet, the lamps were all a cheerful Pepto-Bismol hue. Several band posters had been tacked up—there was one of the Beatles circa 1965, and when Amy leaned in to examine it she realized it had been signed by each of the Fab Four. Tubes of lipstick and mascara wands lay strewn across the vanity. Clothes of various bright colors, most from Burberry or Punky Fish, spilled out of the open closet. A crumpled brown pinstripe suit lay on the floor beside the bed, next to a pale blue bra. This room felt more alive than the others, as if it was still hopefully awaiting its owner’s return. And something made Amy think that this room was still visited while the others had been closed up and ignored. There was no dust atop the dresser; the air inside had yet to stale. She wondered if the Doctor came down here sometimes when _he_ had trouble sleeping. If he brushed a hand through the blouses on the hangers; if he sat on the edge of the disheveled bed and remembered warm days gone past...

There was a small black picture frame on the bedside table. Inside was a photo of a laughing girl with her blonde hair pulled into braided pigtails beside a much taller man with large ears and a black leather jacket. Their arms were linked, and the man was winking at whoever had taken the picture. Amy wondered about them: the girl who was glowing in the sunlight, who had slept in this bed—the man in black and his wide smile. 

The man felt familiar; something about his smile…

When she tired of dust and bygone relics, when she found herself saddened by the abandoned spaces and imagining the bittersweet goodbyes of the previous travelers, she would escape to the library. She’d flip through glossy art books and smile at Van Gogh’s sunflowers. And on especially lonely nights, when her mind refused to quiet and her limbs ached from the day’s running, she’d take a towel and a swimsuit, bypass the books, and float in the deep blue pool until the water soothed away the tension.

The TARDIS was a living contradiction. Which was only right considering the man who piloted her was one, as well. Ancient and brand new, full of faded memories but constantly growing and changing. No wonder the Doctor could live here and be the boy who never grew up, an old soul in an eternally young body. Amy wondered if it was a blessing or a curse, and if she and Rory would become timeless, too. It was easy to feel like a naïve child when you traveled in the TARDIS. All of the wonderful and awe-inspiring things they saw each day. The universe was vast and complicated, the Doctor said, and how could you ever truly become jaded when there was always something new and exciting over the next horizon?

She mulled over all of this as she swam slow, casual laps around the pool one night, just past the midnight hour. There was a grandfather clock in the library that ticked softly, the sound echoing across the water, and as far as Amy could tell it was set to the time it _felt_ like inside the TARDIS. When a place is removed from the natural flow of space and time, it stood to reason that it created its own way of keeping minutes in order. She’d begun to think of it as NTT, or Normal TARDIS Time. 

It was a strange old life. The Doctor hadn’t always been there for her — but he’d been there _when it counted_. He’d sacrificed everything to give her a chance at a happy life, for the safety of the universe—and because he’d trusted her to be mad, brilliant Amy Pond and bring him back. Because of him there were still stars, and the cracks had been closed, and she had a mum and her wee tiny Dad again. She’d always had a family, always had love and support, and her dad had always put the neighbors straight when they whispered that she was strange or crazy. She hadn’t been alone.

But she could still remember it. An entire childhood in that big house full of echoes, her only family an aunt who was convinced she was troubled, who insisted on sending her to four psychiatrists. She could remember being avoided at school, all of the sideways glances and whispers in the halls, with only Rory standing by her. Amy could still remember all of the pain that held her back and kept her from ever saying “I love you,” for fear of having what she loved snatched away by the greedy universe. She remembered and she probably always would, somewhere in the back of her mind. She was the impossible girl who’d lived two different lives at the same time, who had rewritten her fairy tale to give everyone a happy ending, but still had to know about the darkness in the _other_ story. 

Amy floated on her back and looked up at the ceiling, where a hundred different types of light fixtures dangled. She’d only turned on a handful, and the dots of distant light in the gloom gave the ceiling a star-strewn quality. She thought of Vincent and how he would have seen swirls of colors—

“Bee in your bonnet, Pond?”

She was so accustomed to him knocking things over and twirling with a squeak of his shoes and being generally clumsy and _obvious_ that when he actually snuck up on her it was always a surprise. He stood by the edge of the pool with a massive red spanner in his hand, his goggles pushed up to his forehead. Judging by the soot and grease all over his hands and face (the clean circles around his eyes from the goggles gave him a silly reverse-raccoon look) he’d been tinkering with the engines again.

“Nothing in particular,” Amy said, swimming towards him. He was sitting down and pulling off his black boots and socks, rolling up the legs of his pants. “It’s just… You were right. Sometimes this place can be a bit much.”

“Too much?”

“No. Just much.” She pulled herself up and sat down on the edge next to him, dripping wet and pulling strands of hair from her face. He dangled his feet into the water and smiled at her.

“So you’ve been exploring, I hear.”

“Who—oh, did she tell you?”

“She just happened to mention it. It’s perfectly alright, by the way,” he added quickly. “Neither of us mind. If she doesn’t want you somewhere, she’ll just lock the door. And I’ve got no secrets from you or Rory.”

“Some people would say you’re nothing _but_ secrets, Doctor. I mean, what’s your real name? Why are you always so cavalier about lying?”

“I’m never cavalier about lying, Amy, I just sometimes… Don’t tell the truth. Exactly. Ish. And as for the name, what does that matter in the long run? There are some benefits to using a name like the Doctor, if you haven’t noticed. And plenty of people prefer nicknames. Prince, for example, although I thought it was a _bit_ silly when he decided to go by a symbol—is anything wrong?”

“No, nothing’s wrong. I’m just tired, I suppose. I was hoping a swim would relax me, but it didn’t work as well as I’d hoped.”

“I know it was rough having to deal with those armies—”

“It’s not that,” Amy said quickly. “Though that _was_ awfully stressful. I’d appreciate it if we steered clear of battlefields for a while. No matter how cute Rory is when he gets his hands on swords and shields.”

“There are some things you just don’t forget,” the Doctor said with a grin. “And being a plastic centurion is one of them.”

“Speaking of forgetting… Doctor, will I ever forget that old life? The one where it was just me and Aunt Sharon and you were only an imaginary friend?”

“…in time, I think. Human brains are such marvelous things—you can actually be _bored_. And I think that’s because you can forget things, even horrible, painful things. It’ll take time—you’re Amy Pond, after all, and you were changed by the cracks—but in a few more weeks that life will feel more like a dream. A story you heard from someone else. The edges won’t be as sharp anymore.”

“Rory, too?”

“Rory, too.”

“You can’t forget though, can you, Doctor?” She stared at his prominent profile in the half-light. 

“No. It’s part of being a Time Lord,” he said quietly. “It can feel like a curse at times. There are plenty of things I’ve seen and done and couldn’t stop that I’d love to forget—but I can’t, and in the end I _shouldn’t_. Because remembering keeps me sane. It keeps me grounded. Forgetting would turn me into a god, and definitely not a good one.”

“And that’s why we keep traveling, yeah?”

“Yes, Amy. Because what else is there to do but move forward, eh? Sitting still and wallowing won’t do anyone any good—if we keep running, though, we find ourselves where we’re needed. And you don’t mind that, do you?”

“No, I don’t. Not really. I’d like to think I’m a woman of action,” she said with a smile. 

“You are most certainly that, Amy Pond,” he laughed. 

“I was never much for being a homebody, anyway. Someday, sure, when Rory’s had enough and wants to settle somewhere nice—somewhere _not_ Leadworth,” she added quickly. “I’m fine with growing old, but not there.”

“Don’t forget, that was just a dream,” the Doctor said. “Or a nightmare.”

“Even so, I’d rather not run the risk. Leadworth’s fine for a visit, to see Mum and Dad and stop at the pub, but I’d rather live somewhere a little more exciting.”

“I’m rather fond of London,” the Doctor suggested. “Lovely place—it’s got everything you could ever need.”

“You’ve spent a lot of time there?”

“Oh yes. More time in London than in most other places, now that I think on it.”

“Traveled with many Londoners?”

“…A fair few. Wonderful people.”

“Doctor…” She thought of the pink room and the girl with the dazzling smile, of the stack of medical books and the glossy tabloids, of the sword hanging on the wall and the retro typewriter. “Your friends who used to live here, the ones who slept in all of those old bedrooms… What happened to them?”

“They moved on,” he said slowly, looking down into the pool. “They settled down. Got married. Found jobs. Bought houses.”

Amy laid her damp hand over his and squeezed gently. “Were they happy goodbyes, at least?”

“Some of them.”

“I’m sorry, Doctor.”

“Nothing for you to be sorry about, Amelia Pond,” the Doctor said with a subdued smile. “That’s how life is in the TARDIS.”

“I know it is. I understand that much—this place is like a dream, but everybody has to wake up someday. Everybody has to grow up.” She paused and tried to marshal her thoughts. “I know it’s stupid to say Rory and I will stay forever, because we all know that’s not true. But I will say this: we’ll stay as long as we can. And if I have any say in the matter, I’ll make sure you have someone new to blast off with when we have to say goodbye.”

“Oh, Amy,” the Doctor grinned. “Mad, impossible, _brilliant_ Amy Pond.” He leaned in and kissed her forehead. 

“I’d accuse you of putting the moves on my wife, except I know you haven’t _got_ any.”

“Hullo, Rory,” the Doctor turned with a ready smile. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“Just wondering where Amy had run off to—should have known she’d be with you.” He crossed his arms and tapped his foot in a great display of temper, but it was obvious it was nothing but show.

“My apologies. I think I’ll get back to my tinkering.” He stood up, shaking the water from his legs. “You two have a lovely evening. And don’t stay up too late; I’ve got plans for a fancy breakfast in the morning.” He gathered up his shoes and socks and closed the door firmly behind him.

“Is this where you’ve been slipping off to every night?” Rory asked, taking the Doctor’s seat.

“It hasn’t been _every_ night,” Amy replied. “I didn’t think you’d noticed.”

“I’m not that heavy of a sleeper,” Rory said. “And the bed feels lonely without you in it.”

“Aw, I’m sorry.” She looped her arms around his neck and kissed the end of his nose, making him go cross-eyed. “I’ve just been poking around the place, trying to get a feel for the lay of the land.”

“I think that’s an effort in futility. I swear the TARDIS shuffles the rooms around every day,” Rory said. “I have an image of her as this bohemian artist who can’t help but constantly redecorate when inspiration strikes her.”

Amy laughed. “Does she have a beaded shawl and blonde dreadlocks?”

“No, she’s got wild hair and a penchant for scarves; actually, she reminds me of this girl I used to know, who would steal all of my crayons in primary school—”

His sentence cut off with an undignified squawk as Amy pulled him into the pool.

“I’m pretty sure you just ruined this shirt,” Rory complained when they resurfaced.

“I’ll buy you a new one,” she promised. “Besides, you’ve got a hundred plaid shirts.”

“But this one was my favorite.”

“Let me make it up to you,” she suggested.

“Oh? How?”

“I’ve got a couple ideas…” 

“Mmm, Amy, is this such a good idea, in _here_?”

“What’s wrong with here?”

“There’s the possibility of drowning, for starters.”

“Oh, c’mon, Rory. Live dangerously.”

“I married you, didn’t I?”

“…There _is_ this incredible room I found that’s _full_ of pillows.”

“Pillows?”

“Yeah, pillows. It’s like those ball pits for wee kids, but it’s full of pillows.”

“…I’d like to see this room.”

She climbed out of the pool, flicked her hair back, and turned to offer Rory her hand. He had frozen halfway up the ladder and was staring at her with a very particular look on his face. She grinned when she heard how husky his voice had gotten as he said:

“It’s not far to this room, is it?”


End file.
